“ ‘Out of the fog.’ ” Her voice sounded dazed. “Do you mean I don’t know where I am?”
“Something like that. You’re a riddle to yourself, as you are to other people.”
“That is not true! I know myself perfectly.”
“Then you dwell in another dimension from the rest of us.”
Gita colored angrily. “By that, I suppose, you mean I am even more conceited than the rest of you. Quite a feat!”
He laughed good-naturedly. “Quite, indeed. And you’re not. But you’re very honest. Do you really believe you’ve explored yourself thoroughly—made a complete chart of all the subterranean streams, and peaks—sort of magnet for fogs? Now, do you?”
Gita moved uneasily. “Yes, I do. I’ve had a very wide and varied experience of life that you know nothing about. No one has ever had an opportunity to gauge herself more exhaustively than I.”
“Ah! I’m not surprised to hear you say that. . . . You suggest a play in four acts with a prologue and epilogue. . . . But I can’t make even a guess. Have you ever been in love?” he asked bluntly.
Gita drew herself up haughtily. “That question was in excessively bad taste.”
“We’ve abandoned taste with other old clichés.” But he took the edge from this announcement of an unassailable fact with a disarming smile. “And if you haven’t, you will, you know. You’re not in the least in love with Eustace, and you’ve got it coming—when the fog lifts.”